A Case of Identity
By Marvel Chukwudi Pephel
Art by Heather Reynolds
Published Issue 137, May 2025

I rose from my mat and turned to pick up a cup of tea on a wooden table. It was morning and, from my window, I could see the flock of sheep in the farm nearby. I knew exactly what this meant. My neighbour Fanta Manta had unleashed his sheep again, and that farm belonged to me. I felt a molten magma of anger rush down my spine. I could see the lambs, those ones whose fleece were as white as snow, eating my shrubs and vegetables. Infuriated, I dropped my cup. Then I picked a wooden club and dashed out towards my farm. I swear I didn’t know what I was doing. I flung my club, killing some in the process. I have been a no-nonsense person from Day One, Lord forgive me. Now, the older sheep had managed to scamper off towards the house of my adversary, bleating as loud as they could. I stood and watched the destruction brought upon my crops with eyes of pain. I had struggled to make these crops grow at a time rainfall was at an alarming minimal, often watering them with fetched buckets of water. For the water, I had to trek to the closest river which was not close at all, God knows. But now, in the blink of an eye, my labour seemed to be almost in vain, and I didn’t know exactly what to do. I shook my head — a heavy head — and picked up the dead lambs.

I had tried to wipe off a trillion tears when something in me told me to confront Fanta Manta at the dead of night. When the idea first came, it wasn’t as lucid as I now wish it had been. Well, I, myself, wasn’t often clear-headed. As a matter of fact, I was only but a farmer — and having little education was also a handicap. The only thing I had inherited from my deceased father was his little hut and the love for hunting. Sadly, he died when I least expected it, and left me with derivative poverty. I was only seventeen, and my own mother had moved away to live with another man. Everything did hurt, but I learnt to live with my circumstances. Well, I don’t know what hurts most — if it’s being saddled with poverty or being the only seed of my father. A terrible thing, if you ask me. Well, I did well to finish my cooked lamb’s leg. I, afterwards, took copious amount of palmwine and waited for the dead of night to approach — the idea still plausible in my head.

The streets are crazy, and the street I grew up on was crazier. I won’t try to fine-tune anything here — not a single bit. This is the story of my life, the story of how I sought out Fanta Manta. Just before I stepped out for his place, again, I took copious amount of palmwine. There was a thing about this palmwine that I could not explain. A thing so inexplicable that it hurts my soul. But all the same, I loved it — this palmwine, I mean. 

Quickly, I wore my shorts and hastened up. Matters like this needed not to be delayed — at least so I thought then. I wore the only pair of shoes I was proud of and set about to lock my door. Really, the night was cold and the bats were numerous in an unusual way. I swallowed hard and put the keys in my pocket. I checked the time — it was the right time! I sighed and hurried out towards the house of Fanta Manta. Things that needed to be done needed to be done as quickly as possible. 

In my hand was a kerosene lamp which burned with the faintest light ever, but I was grateful for it. At least Fanta Manta wouldn’t know what hit him even if he had the slightest premonition. Satisfied, I smiled and walked quietly — but with easy steps — towards the house of my adversary. By God, I knew he would be shocked by the visit, and I was willing to offer him the surprise — the most horrific of his life. I cleared my throat and traced the patterns of the underlying plant matter before me. I could swear I felt a slight pang of headache as I walked, but I paid no attention to it. It could have been anything — anxiety or the effect of too much alcohol. I rubbed my head and smiled as I traced my way forward. The whistling trees whistled and chirping crickets chirped as I moved through the dark. And of course, yes, the plan was still fresh in my head. 

I smiled for the umpteenth time and leapt over a branched log of wood, almost slipping and falling. I laughed at myself and hurried on in search of Fanta Manta’s house. As I moved, I imagined how he would take the surprise and a great ripple of rhapsody moved through my scrawny soul. I laughed again and stopped abruptly as I realised I was already a few meters away from his house. There was a light on inside, and it glittered through the window. But, of course, I did not worry as I had made provision for this occasion in my plan. 

I dipped my hand into my pocket and produced a small sharp knife. I looked at it with deep admonition — because it had been my friend for the past five years — and walked straight to the back door of Fanta Manta’s house. One thing with knives is that sometimes they do not do exactly what you want them to. But anyway, I had made sure my plan was foolproof in this regard. Quickly, I turned the doorknob. To my greatest surprise, it wasn’t even locked. This could have been a mistake — most definitely! But it was in my favour, and I didn’t care as well. I moved in and closed the door quietly behind me. Just then, I felt a strange laughter echo through my ribs. I held my soul and laughed in the semi-dark corridor. This would be the end of Fanta Manta, I swore. Never show thy enemy love! 

Swiftly, I raised my lamp aloft and walked in in search of the old fool. I moved stealthily through the corridor and arrived at a room whose door was partly closed. I stopped myself and observed with my faint light. The glow I saw outside, I came to realise, burned in the kitchen. I swallowed hard and tried to make sense of everything. “Fanta Manta should be fast asleep,” I said to myself. Such a bumbling old fool can’t be awake by now! Still, I stood there and held my dim light — not moving, not feeling anything at all. You know what they say about life: sometimes it shocks you, sometimes it hugs you. And just there in particular, I saw the semblance of Fanta Manta approach from the darkness ahead. 

I quivered but still held my lamp as firmly as I had. My head felt a bit heavy as I watched the man approach me. I knew the plan after all, so I held my peace and watched gimlet-eyed. This Fanta Manta must be put in his place, I thought. Fanta Manta had a limping gait, but this semblance in the dark moved so easily I could have sworn it wasn’t him. But I mustn’t let him escape, whatever tricks he was up to. So I widened my eyes and looked forward with precision and accuracy. Such a bumbling old fool must pay for all the wrong he has done to me. I raised the penknife in the dark and waited for the right time to draw fresh blood. 

As I waited and watched him walk lazily, I wondered where he was headed at that time of the night — if he was even seeing at all. Then, suddenly, as if he had noticed an unusual light in the dark corridor – or like someone who had been walking with sleepy eyes all along – he gasped and tried to step back. Quickly, I charged towards him and plunged my weapon into his belly. He yelled in anguish, and I hugged him a bit tightly – pushing the knife in with my own belly, the lantern behind his back. I listened to his breath as he struggled to live. I felt for him as a human would feel for his fellow man. But no! Fanta Manta was an old fool. So, quickly, I ensured my work was perfected, and watched him slump to the ground. 

I heaved a deep breath and decided it was time to move to the next stage of the plan. When I tried to raise him, he felt heavy, and I wondered what he had been eating lately. But that was none of my business — he could eat his own head for all I care. Raising the strangely heavy Fanta Manta from the ground, I managed to carry him to his bed. And when I tried to drop him, I realised his hips were even heavier than what I could attribute to Fanta Manta. But I wasn’t ready to fall for his tricks. So, I left him on his bed and charged towards the door that had seen me in. But then I forgot! Yes, I forgot. So I rushed back to drop the penknife on the bed as I had planned. I felt quite greatly that with this, no one would argue that Fanta Manta did not stab himself. Having dropped the knife, I charged out again, almost stumbling and falling sideways. Luckily, my light was still on, glittering as faint as it had been. I found the door and discharged myself.

I heard the crow of the cock and stepped outside with a smile on my face. It was already morning, and I went to discharge nature’s liquid from my body. I never knew I was in for a surprise. Just as I brought out my device, I saw Fanta Manta coming with his sheep and looking ever so alive. Shock went down my spine in milliseconds, and I stepped back. I studied the man closely, and indeed it was Fanta Manta. I felt a frozen sea rise within me. I coughed and looked within my soul. It was then it dawned on me that I must have mistaken another house to be his. So quickly, and with great trepidation, I charged my feet to discover who I had murdered last night — to discover whose last cry I heard. Fear gripped my soul as I walked past Fanta Manta, ignoring his greeting. “How could I have missed killing the old fool?” I said to myself. I didn’t know what to do exactly, but I kept moving. I feared I must have killed an innocent woman. Oh, what have I done?! I pondered as I tried to find out which house I had entered in the wee hours. I knew how difficult this would be, as any mistake would reveal me as the … as the … oh!

I jumped over a log of wood and shouted, “Sarah Banda! Sarah Banda!! Are you not awake?!” But no reply came from Sarah Banda’s house, and I presumed she was the one. “Oh, Lord!” I cried. “What have I done?” Sarah was that little innocent woman who was always full of smiles. Just when I had concluded she was dead, Sarah Banda opened her door and said, “Oh, Zik! What have I done this time?” I shook with fear and asked if she had a little pepper to spare. Quickly, and without thought, Sarah Banda ran and provided me with some pepper and even some salt. “Take this, Zik. Whatever it is, I can do for you.” Of course, many times I have wondered what I could do to repay Sarah Banda for her benevolence. But this wasn’t time for such thought. So I thanked her and moved on. 

I held the condiments in my hand and went to check on Zanchi Zanza. “Zanchi Zanza!” I called. “Are you not awake?” Yet again, no reply came. I persisted and called again, “Zanchi Zanza! Zanchi Zanza!! Is the morning too cold for you?” Still no reply came. I became worried and called out again, “Zanchi, I have come to take you out as I promised!” Yet, no reply came. “Oh, Zanchi Zanza! Please, answer me. It is nobody but Zik. Please, ZZ! Please, my adorable Zanchi!” But no reply came. With tears strolling down my eyes, I rushed in and found Zanchi dead with my knife beside her arm. “Is this the work of my hand?!” I screamed and fell upon her body, annoyed that I could not even recognise the hips of Zanchi Zanza — the only woman who had made my miserable life worth living. I sighed deeply and decided it was time for another plan. I cried and kissed her darling lips — tasting the lips of the dead. 

Marvel Chukwudi Pephel aka Poet Panda, is a Nigerian writer who has synesthesia and writes prose with a poetic overtone. He is the author of five books of poetry and has taught writing to upcoming writers through his Quasiyoga Writing Masterclass. He can’t stop talking about how much he likes the writing of Helen Oyeyemi.

Heather Reynolds is a tattoo artist and painter based in Denver, CO. She is the co-owner of Zeitgeist Tattoo, a private studio in south Denver. Check out more of her work on Instagram and on her Website.